


Scribbles

by infinatefables



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Magical Realism, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 13:12:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2111181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinatefables/pseuds/infinatefables
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a reason John's therapist asked him to write- he's really quite good at it. So what happens when he starts writing about someone who might just be the worst flatmate and best friend he'll ever have?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scribbles

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Chiaroscuro](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/66765) by ReisDular. 



> Don't you know how powerful language is?

"Have you been writing in your blog, John?"

Stony silence.

"With your skill, it's really an excellent form of therapy, but only if you  _actually start typing_."

A bell rings somewhere. The therapist looks at her notes with an almost disappointed face, as if John's lack of literary output has hurt her deeply. "This concludes this week's session, but I want you to actually try to write something this week. It'll help."

And with that, she closes her notebook, and he grabs his hospital-issue cane and leaves.

(It's not that he doesn't want to write- it's just that, to him, the entire concept of writing-as-therapy is, frankly, quite ludicrous.  
Anyway, for some reason, he much prefers longhand.)

* * *

The next morning, he swings by the shop and picks up one of those 300-page monster notebooks, and then limps over to the park.

Nothing.

Nothing.

_Nothing._

After the heat and dust and grit of Afghanistan, everything here seems… pale. That's it. Pale and lifeless and not worth putting to paper.

It's on his fifth day of trying to write something,  _anything_ , that he bumps into Mike. After the awkward greetings, he finds the two of them sitting on a nearby bench, drinking terrible coffee and desperately searching for something,  _anything_ to talk about. Stamford looks around for a bit, and then seems to gather his thoughts.

"So, John- just staying in town until you get yourself sorted?"

John grimaces as he thinks of the horrid bedsit. "I can't  _afford_ London on an army pension."

Stamford acknowledges this with a nod. "Ah, but you couldn't bear to be anywhere else."

True.

"Perhaps you could get a flatshare or something?"

The idea, though well-meant, is, quite frankly, ludicrous. Who would want to share a flat with an ex-army doctor with a limp and and PTSD? But he doesn't say that to Mike, shortening it to "C'mon. Who'd want  _me_ for a flatmate?"

Mike thinks for a minute, as if he's running through a list of everyone he knows, everyone who's looking for a flatshare, and everyone who might not mind sharing with John. It's clear from his disappointed expression that he comes up empty. "Sorry mate, don't think I can help you there."

Then he rises, explaining that he must get back to St. Bart's, and heads off. John, however, sits there for another half-hour, mulling over the question.  _What kind of person would make a good flatmate?_

His first list, the one he makes when he's still bit serious about finding someone, covers all the usual things.  _Tidy, quiet, non-smoker, no pets…_  And when he looks at it again, it's not right. Slamming to notebook shut, he limps home.

* * *

He limps to the park the next morning, knowing that the circles under his eyes have gotten worse. The nightmares had been particularly bad, but what's really nibbling at his mind is a single line from a break between dreams, one that he remembers with absolute clarity and yet doesn't recognize at all.

_Can I borrow your phone?_

* * *

It's when he's stationed on a park bench with a small coffee that he thinks to pull out his notebook, flipping to an empty page. Yesterday's conversation with Mike is floating around in his head as he gropes in his pocket for a pen, as he clicks it open. Who would want someone like him for a flatmate? More importantly, who would he want?

He starts to write.

_He is tall, and thin, and looks like he's just stepped forward from our great-grandfather's youth, barely remembering to change his clothes. It works for him though- he most certainly isn't someone who wears jeans and jumpers. He does, however, always wear a long, dark coat that makes him seem even more dramatic. You fade next to him- everyone does, really._

_But you don't mind. Because he can_ see _what everyone else cannot- the hidden truths and lies in a phone, a coat collar, or an umbrella. He can read your entire life story in the way you walk and your haircut, and he doesn't mind telling you this. He's a detective- one that works with the police when he feels like it._

Only  _when he feels like it._

The words don't come from his head or his memories- more like they're from another…  _elsewhere_ , and he's reminded of the time after his Nan died, when he sat down and wrote a story about a soldier who made it through enemy lines with the help of a member of the Résistance.

(It was only when he showed it to his mum that she asked when Nan had told him about how she met his grandfather.)

A flurry of sirens nearby startles him out of writing, and he knows he's done as much as he can today. So he limps back to the bedsit (and his leg might be feeling a bit better, who knows?) and tonight, the nightmares aren't as bad.

* * *

He finds himself back on the bench the next day, and flips to a clean page before looking around the park. There's a real estate flyer flapping around the path, and he is reminded about how he really should start looking for somewhere else to live…

_The flat is, and will always be, a mess. There are papers everywhere, along with experiments and evidence left over from old cases._ (How he knows there are cases _(and of course there are, for what else does a Consulting Detective do but solve cases?)_ he does not know, but there they are, on the page) _Occasionally you will be able to find something- a book, your socks, the jam- but the rest of the time the chaos simply sniggers as you curse about how you're going to be late for work. There's an hourglass- no, a stage prop from_ Hamlet-  _no, a_ real human skull  _on the mantelpiece, and the wallpaper pattern was discontinued shortly after the Berlin Wall fell. And don't even start about the chemistry experiments on the kitchen table or the limbs in the fridge._

_The landlady's a bit dotty- and quite fond of what she calls "Herbal Soothers", but given that she puts up with everything, no-one really blames her. And at lest she's understanding about the rent._

John isn't quite sure if he actually just wrote all of that, or if it just spontaneously appeared on the paper. Reading though it, all the oddness, he almost starts to wonder if he's madder than his therapist thinks he is. But thinking about it… it makes sense. John doesn't really want  _normal_ anymore. Not that anyone else would ever understand that.

_Except him…_

* * *

His barely realizes that it's been a week since his last appointment until a notice comes up in the address book in the phone Harry forced on him. It's a Tuesday, and he has another session.

Another hour spent Not Saying Anything Much, another Look, and another Probing Question. "Have you been writing in your blog, John?"

And John almost tells her  _No, but… ,_ but then something in him scowls and he remains silent.

Because, for some reason, he doesn't really want her to know about the notebook that's getting fuller every day- he doesn't want  _her_ to know. (Because it feels wrong, as if this is his and his alone, not something that can be taken from him like his shoulder and his leg and his dreams) So instead, he gives her he best rueful grin and explains that he's suffering from a massive case of writer's block.

(And that night, he doesn't dream at all.)

* * *

It's been about three weeks. Three weeks of park-kiosk coffee and paper cuts and spent pens and  _writing_. It seems like everything gives him an idea now- a girl on the tube moaning about her flatmate's annoying policewoman sister to whoever's on the other end of her mobile becomes

_The brother who smiles like he knows everything about you, and given his line of work, probably does_

And the busker on the corner brings up whispers of

_It's not like he can't play- he can, beautifully, but sometimes the screeches and shrieks are the only things that can express the utter chaos that's inside his head_

A particularly trying session brings a peeved expression and snarky comments to life, as if he's always going

" _What is it like in your funny little brains?"_

Three weeks of running through the streets ( _he knows all of London like John knows the sand and wind of Afghanistan)_ of popping by St. Barts ( _Black, two sugars_ ) and walking past New Scotland Yard  _(Shut up, Anderson)_ , of dark secrets ( _there's a scar on his arm from when a needle slipped, one that they both pretend not to notice_ ), and of writing, writing,  _writing_. He's filled the entire notebook, misplaced more pens than he can count, and slept soundly every night.

This morning, he went to the shop and bought another book, thinking perhaps he could turn this…  _person_ into a story,  _perhaps_ … And the page is blank.

Because John has just realized something. This flatmate, this detective, this supernova genius with stormcloud eyes who claims to be a sociopath and yet most definitely  _isn't_ , doesn't have a name. And the pen hovers over the first page as John's mind swirls.

It would have to be something uncommon, something that sounds as if it was plucked from the past, something that wouldn't fit anyone but him. And then, like the first idea, like the story about his Nan, like all the times an artist takes a breath and lets the ideas reach out tentative fingers…

He writes.

_Sherlock Holmes._

(And for a second, the entire  _universe_ quivers, and he almost feels something and then it is over and-)

"Really, John! I told you,  _we have a case_!" And John turns, and looks, and beside him is Sherlock Holmes- for it could not be anyone  _but_ him. The coat, the eyes, the way he searched the passers-by as if hoping one of them is a remotely interesting serial killer or the like- It is,  _he_ is, Sherlock. And while John has pondered this, Sherlock has lept from the bench and headed towards the road with to hail a cab. And John barely hesitates to follow him

* * *

Sometime later, a dog-walker noticed someone had left their things on one of the benches flanking the path. But when he headed over, all he found was two blank notebooks, a couple of spent pens, and a hospital-issue cane.

* * *

_And they ran._


End file.
